SLÁN ABHAILE ╱ GONE

[HOUNDSTRIDE.]

Blood smears the riverbank in dried crimson patches– across the sun-brightened foliage and the silvery pebbles of its shallows. For a moment that seems all. Spilled blood, a pricked paw. The path soon reveals itself in broken stems and streams, drips, spatters ever closer to the roaring waters. And above all of it, the scent of fox and Hound. It's early in the morning, the first patrols setting out their paths along the receding banks in tentative silence. The scent must prickle and wheedle and draw their attention, whispers on the breeze that turn to a shout as any were to follow its path.

Among the reeds litters patches of brown fur astride flaming red, and all at once it ceases. The water rushes languidly by. For all that may happen to it, the river is a constant. Lazy and steadfast, it swallows the traces of whatever had happened here. But quick minds have seen much trouble as of late, and at least one thing is certain: the two of them are gone, long washed away, and all that is left is a mess. The scent of him will fade from his bedding, and that is the end of that.

this isn't a wonderful post by any means but i figured hound deserved some sense of finality. in the end i'm too attached to label this a clear death, but anybody is free to assume either way. the evidence points towards him having found a fox, and knowing that he couldn't win the fight, did what he could to take it with him into the water. thank you guys for all the great times hound has had, hopefully i'll be able to return with one of my new characters. :)​

 

[LAKEMOON]

LAKEMOON — me and the devil, walking side by side.
Intuition.
Lakemoon had always prided herself with many things, her fine-tuned skills, her capability, the level head she wore so carefully all of the time.
Intuition, however? She never thought of herself with having good intuition, she never liked to jump to conclusions, to worry about something that hadn’t happened yet.
Still, there is a prickle under each pawstep she takes towards the rivers bank with the small hunting patrol she leads on her heels. There is nothing unordinary about today, other than that damned prickle she cannot shake.
The stinging scent of fox is the first thing she catches, shooting a silent look to her patrol before they push onward, stepping over river-grown foliage with care in their gait.
The scene Lakemoon stumbles onto wasn’t what the silvery warrior had been expecting at all.
She is deathly still, silent as she assesses the situation before them. If another would try to step forward, they’d be blocked by the flick of a feathered tail.
Blood, so much of it, spilled. The trodden path toward the river littered with broken stems and crimson droplets, still dripping from drooping stems.
Yet, the thing that sends the scarred warrior rigid is the scent buried under fox, fear, and blood.
Houndstride’s.
Hound’s.
Scanning eyes snag on the tufts of brown fur, turned almost russet by the carnage of the scene.
Finally, Lakemoon moves, still silent. She’s looking for him, the desperation in her mind masked all too well.
She creeps to the rivers edge, an alabaster paw lightly touching the adjacent tufts of flame and bracken, sapphire optics flickering wildly between them and the river, piecing her conclusion while a fire sparks in her stomache.
"Find him." Her words are quiet, almost a hum.
"Find him!" When she repeats herself her head is snapping around to the cats who she had led to this mess. Her voice is icy, but does not snap, only slightly raised to emphasize the urgency of the situation.
She would not be losing him, she would not.
He was the only one here who still knew her as Azalea, who still held a certain love for her despite her armored exterior- who had taught her to be the warrior she is today.
She would not let a fox, or even the mighty river steal him from her.

"speech"

tags​

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[Flutterpaw ☆]

Flutterpaw rushes after his mentor, his butterfly nose twitching at the musky scent. Fox and river and blood, all scents that Flutterpaw has - until this point - only known in distant isolation. He gulps, taking in the destruction, taking in for the first time - really - that his clan-mates could disappear. He realizes, slowly at first, and then all at once, that the fox and the river and the blood are all part of one big event where a RiverClan warrior was and then... wasn't. It is the sort of realization that makes a child shrink against their nearest authority figure as if it'll make the dread go away.

But he can't do that right now, as his authority figure is searching the bank for a friend. "What should I do, Lakemoon?" The boy's voice is quiet, shaky. What could he do, really, in the face of this?​

 

[Snakeblink]

MAYBE I'D BE A SAINT IF I WEREN'T ————————————​

Snakeblink doesn’t have to step closer to the site of carnage to understand what Lakemoon has already figured out:

Houndstride is dead, or as good as. Gone, either way, along with the fox that left its scent and his blood on the shore. They will find nothing here save for a few more tufts of fur torn in the fray and gouges in the dirt from scrambling claws. Perhaps there will be more to see downstream: a dead body or, Stars willing, a living one. More likely than not there will be nothing but the rushing water, any hint of red swept away by the current.

There is little reason to hope, so it’s not hope that gets Snakeblink moving. It’s the urgency in Lakemoon’s voice, and the way Flutterpaw’s shakes in return: the needs of the living.

”One of them may have made it to shore further down,” he says, addressing the hunting patrol as a whole although he keeps his eyes on Lakemoon alone. ”Keep an eye out for tracks — on either side of the river. If we’re lucky, another patrol will have seen them go by.”

He very carefully does not consider the hole in his chest, the loss of yet another clanmate. That is a problem best left for later. Perhaps never: who knows when there will be time for it.
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——————————————————————————————————— so god damn lonely ​

ooc. information.

• 
  
• — Snakeblink • he / him. 42 ☾, riverclan warrior
  — a sleek, skinny tabby with long ears and a scar over his right eye.
  — gay, not actually evil, penned by @Kangoo
  
  
  

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[BONERIPPLE]

જ➶ The scene before her reminds her of how she found Wolverinefang. But instead of a body savagely torn into there is nothing but the remnants of fur and the scene that there seemed to have been a fight before the murky waters of the river took it all away. Her eyes are focused on the river and her maw is a thin like and yet she can not understand this feeling inside of her. A cold feeling. Something akin to indifference. She finds herself cold and indifferent to what has potentially occurred here. Her face though is a simple neutral, gaze lifting up to look at Snakeblink as he speaks about another patrol hopefully seeing them further down the river. "With any luck, hopefully so." She easily speaks her words as she furrows her brow.

One Riverclanner returns and another is taken. She knows not what to think of the situation but she leaves it up to Starclan she supposes. Afterall, they seem to know what is best.​

 

[Cindershade]

The now urgency that laces Lakemoon's ever present calmness brings an air of tenacity out of Cindershade. She is now on high alert, moving to the taller female's side to see for herself what has unfolded.

And it makes her stomach twist in knots.

Splatters of crimson ichor patterned the shoreline in a cacophony of droplets. Fur throw astray that littered the ground—and perhaps even more that had already been swept away from the current. Her body goes eerily still when she can make out the scent of Houndstride under the thick layer of sharpness and musk, causing her hair to rise. A fox. Another fox was here like the one to have blinded Fernpaw. Was it the same one? Or different? She had tbiuggy they had driven the other away, but some were as stubborn if a reliable food source was near. Her jaw goes rigid, molars clenching and grinding together. Houndstride—a tom she did not know all too well, but with one she tried to accquaint herself to. He was a constant presence, a towering figure that grew by the river even before the clans forming. Now he was gone—dead or alive they did not know. How many more would this mighty river claim? First Beesong, now him. They were both gone—taken from them and it made her so damn angry.
Heeding Snakeblink's words, she offers a brief nod to him before tearing her gaze away from the scene before them all. She can not help but to think of a similar situation, out on a usual patrol and something catastrophic has revealed it's hideous face. Will she walk and find another beaten and broken body? Will she have to swallow all her grief and bring another dead body back to camp?
Cindershade shivers at the thought, from ear tip to tail and she is thankful thst she has turned away from them all. Her eyes linger along the water's edge, knuckled paws kneading against hard stone. "How many more will you take..." Sne murmurs to no one in particular, but it is clear that she is slowly losing her grip on her usual stoicism. Why can't RiverClan go a moon without a constant reaper of grief following them all? "I'll follow downstream and see if I see any more clues." She doesn't ask for anyone to follow, but if they so wished—then she would not argue it.

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[ SILENCE IS DEAFENING ]​

 

[iciclefang]

The stench of fox on the air, accompanied by snatches of tabby fur and streams of blood soaking into the water, does not give Iciclefang much hope. The young warrior stands dutifully by Cindershade, surveying the carnage with unease prickling her pelt. She does not believe Houndstride had gotten away with his life—but perhaps that could at least find a body.

The marbled she-cat looks to her lead warriors—but her eyes only graze Snakeblink’s tabby pelt, settling instead of Cindershade’s stocky rosette form. This is who should be giving orders. “I’ll go with you,” she promises swiftly. Lakemoon is clearly distraught at the thought of having lost the cat who’d mentored her, who’d come with her from the marshes—and Iciclefang cannot help but feel a pang of sorrow for her sister’s mate.

Had it been scraps of black fur plastered with blood against the reeds, Iciclefang thinks she might have lost her mind.

There is a messy dissolution of fluids nearest the riverbank. “Their trails disappear into the water,” she murmurs to any cat who might have followed. “He took the fox with him, at least.” Noble, but a damn shame.

✧ INFO.

•  
• 
  — iciclekit . iciclepaw . iciclefang
  — she/her ; warrior of riverclan
  — lesbian ; single
  — short-haired tortoiseshell with white markings and ice-blue eyes
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — penned by Marquette
  — chibi by Pin

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[CICADASTAR]

tw for emeto in the last paragraph < / 3 hes not having a good time

it’s the smell of blood that draws him. that bitter, acrid tang so familiar to him now — so familiar it no longer pools that icy dread in his stomach when it plasters his nostrils, his throat. his tail curls at his heels to slow @Hazepaw down behind him, deaf to the murmurs of those he approaches slow behind, still dripping with greenleaf - warmed river. the reek of fox hangs heavy over their heads and, in a dark thought, he can only send a small thanks to starclan for the lack of colony scent lingering past the undergrowth ; conflict beyond conflict and he feels himself aging in each twinge of his chest, each aching gouge of his heart he’d patched with constellations. the mottled phantom approaches after iciclefang, a drift of ivory paws bringing him aside snakeblink and the scent was stronger here, bloodied and tinged with muck. something heavy and rot - tinged, something familiar. a whisper of something golden, like sun on gleaming waters. he thinks of warm brown reflections and fireflies.

houndstride.

there would be something poetic about his sudden twist, should his mind fire beyond the sudden blackness to envelop it ; he feels lightheaded all too sudden, that creeping void sending tendrils of dark haze towards the edges of his vision knocking a dizzy blur into his skull. an alabaster paw steps forward haphazardly, nearly dragging himself blind after a mottled pelt, but that nor the wobble of it seems to relax wide - snapped eyes. tall ears are pinned to his skull and he knows not when they’d lowered, but lakemoon is shouting now, ordering that they find him, find him! as if crimson did not dot the isle closest to the waters, dragging messily into where the river cleanses. the waters had served him one final time, it seemed. for a moment, he simply pants — an open - mouthed fluttering of too - thin chest. they are speaking and it sounds as if he is submerged, paws splaying towards a wavering surface.. and this time, hound does not ascend from the icy heavens to pry him from the depths, ” ja.. ja. “ yes. yes, yes, yes. a patrol, security. houndstride was dead — likely, most likely, but lives still continue. what ifs tangle in his mind, a scratching, wailing desperation for time long spent. his stomach ties in knots.

in mere moments, he knows intimately what his mate has suffered with in the moon past. the leader, however, does not bend to it — he stumbles, manages to split his jaws and heave into the bushes, twine limbs shaking with the effort of keeping himself upright. seconds after, his head tosses upward, eyes wild and saliva puddles at the corners of his maw. there is nothing but suggestion here, and yet his marrow aches, pulses with loss. he gasps on an upheave, clears his throat — moving on, as if he did not dribble spittle with each word, ” cindershade, take iciclefang and lakemoon to secure.. the area. “ his voice shakes, a momentary falter in tone where his throat closes and forces a swallow of acidic bile. the smell of blood washes over him again. his tongue pools, ” snakeblink, boneripple, we’ll head down towards skyclan. ask if they’ve.. “ seen him. broken - bodied and sodden, mouth drawn open like the same beached fish they eat. if he’s washed up, it would have been downstream towards their sand clearing. a pink tongue swipes over his acridic muzzle, head high despite its notable sway. he does not finish his sentence, leaves it trembling in the air as he turns, starts away.

his stomach tenses again, and he keeps going.

˗ˏˋ 𓆩  OOC ✟ VISUAL 𓆪 ´ˎ˗

• i.
  
• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ CICADASTAR⠀⠀−−−c−−−⠀⠀king of the rivers.
  
  
  m. he / him. black smoke & tortoiseshell chimera with intense salt - blue eyes. a handsome, looming tom bearing patchwork black - silver curls that fall over his slim figure in loose, shining rivulets, broken with white and glossy from his fish diet. descending from a heritage of overtyped oriental shorthairs, cicadastar stands unusually tall amongst his peers, and holds himself with a tragic grace, poised and prim and ever - aware of how he is being perceived.
  
  ᨒ gay, mated to smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
  ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 50 moons, ages every 50 posts.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
• 
  
  
  
• "speech"
  

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